PS 3527 
.E26 S5 
1907 



Mim» I w « w r 11 I I li i j i I III WMum i irii 



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Class t^Sd£^S-.7 

Book ^£Z^^^ 

GopyrightN" J^A7 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



The Strife of Life 



Xhe^trife of (ife 

^A BOOK or MODERN VERSE ^ 
BY 

GOTTHOLD AlGlST NEEFF 



With six illustrations by well known artists. 



AMERICAN AUTHORS' AGENCY, 

ELLENVILLE, NEW YORK. 

1907. 






UeRARYofCONGITESS] 
Two Gooies Received 

,*PH 2'r 1907 

ULAS3 >^ XXC, No. 

/(c ?^ ?6 

COPY D. 



Copyright, 1907, 

By Dr. G, A, Neeff, EllenvUle, N. Y. 

All Rights Reserved. 



Dedication 

To Those who out of True Love 

For Whatever is Beautiful and Lasting 

Have from a Sympathetic and Responsive Heart 

Assisted and Inspired Struggling Talent : 

Mrs. John F. Norbury of Ellenville, N. Y., 

and the following artists : 
E. L. Henry, of New York, N. Y., 
Charles C. Curran, of New York, N. Y. 
Edward Gay, of Mount Vernon, N. Y., 

and particularly 
Mark Popkin, of New York, N. Y., 
not forgetting her to whom I owe not the least 

of what I am, 

the Cherished Helpmeet and Solace of my Life, 

Sophie Hartmann Neeff 

I DEDICATE THIS LITTLE VOLUME 

as a Swcere Token 

of Lasting Gratitude and Appreciation. 



Illustrations 



To the Honeysuckle, 

To the Cloud, 

Auzumnnight, 

The Batteler, 

The Midnight Train. 

The Hero of the Hoe 



by E. L. Henry. 


Facing Page 
1 V 


" Charles C, Curran. 


17^ 


" Edward Gay, 


SH 


" Mark Pop kin. 


41 


** Mark Popkin. 


57 


" Mark Popkin, 


sr 



INDEX 

PAGE 

To the Honeysuckle - - - 1 

Chrysanthemum . - 2 

The Fire-Fly - . . 8 

The Sea-Gull - - 4 

The Prairieflower - 5 

To the Lotos - - - 6 

To the Arc-light - 7 

My Song - - 9 

A Wanderer's Vision - - 16 

To the Cloud - - - 17 

Maria - - - 18 

From the Great White Tzardom - - 21 

The Blizzard - - - 25 

Sermon of the Snow - - - 26 

To the Tuberose - - 27 

Truth - - - - 29 

A Simple Little Ballad - 31 

Autumnnight - - - 33 

The Wild, Wild Billowmaid - - 34 

A Day in June - - 36 

Good Night, Good Lord I - 40 

The Batteler - - 41 

A Mirage of the Desert - - 46 

Hymnus - - 47 



PAGE 

"The Protest of the Sioux" - - 49 

"Physical Liberty" - - 52 

"The Blizzard, Peril of the Plains" - 54 

The Midnight Train - - - 57 

Thalassa - - 59 

The Most Pitiable Slave - - 62 

Who Lives - - - 64 

A Letter from Port Arthur - 65 

Without a Sound - - 68 

On the Battlefield of Mukden - - 71 

Banzai - - 73 

The Siriuses - - - 74 

Religious Service on a Russian Battlefield - 77 

The Hero of the Hoe - - 79 

Without a Hoe - - - 81 

A Thief - - 83 

Little Annie lie - - 86 

Herzeleide - - 89 

Niagara - - - 90 

Liberty - - 91 

To Ssemyon Jacovlevitsh Nadson - - 94 



-VII- 



p OREWORD 



The author of this volume of promiscuous modem verse disdains 
to rush forth with would-be and should-be witty apologies for 
venturing out upon the Sea of Poesie. But one thing he may 
claim to have done. He, at least, has followed the dictate of 
Horace. For some of his imaginings have been kept in the daik 
recesses of his desk for a dozen years, while Horace demands only 
nine. But the larger part of the verses are of quite recent origin, 
and all cire "up to date." 

If any excuse for the appearance of this book must be made, 
it may be said that the friends of the author have repeatedly sug- 
gested, that as he has become the editor of a volume of collected 
verse by one hundred authors living in the United States, who still 
write in the language of the Fatherland, he might now venture to 
show that he has not forgotten the idiom of his own native country. 
Some of the kindly criticisms by English speaking Americans con- 
cerning the poetry which appeared in that Anthology, bearing the 
title "Vom Lande des Sternenbanners," suggested that it might be 
interesting for the American reader to know what some of our 
neighbors were writing, in that classic tongue, the German, and 
that it seemed as if these brethren in our vast empire, with a litera- 
ture on this side of the Atlantic even second only to the English, 
might have a mission to perform and a message to deliver to us. 
The editor of the Anthology in question believes that until now no 



— Vlll— 

one of his colaborers has issued a volume of poetry in English, 
though a few may have w^ritten isolated verse, and that, therefore, 
he may become the scape-goat, by giving expression to his thoughts 
in a gaih which to some extent may have been tailored abroad, 
and that he may give some idea, how in form some examples of 
modem German verse present themselves to the eye and the intel- 
lect. Whatever may be said concerning this same form, it must 
be emphasized that it certainly is not Whitmanish in style, for it 
contains wrinkles and ruffles that Whitman could never affect,- my 
conception of Whitman agreeing quite fully with that of R. L. 
Stevenson. It must be said, however, at the very outset, that the 
work contained in this volume is original enough, even if a number 
of the poems are mates to those coexisting in the German, — such 
as "To the Cloud," "Maria," "Thalassa," "Hymnus," "Mukden," 
"Mirage of the Desert," "Good Night, Good Lord !", "Autumn- 
night," "The Billowmaid," "Blizzard," "Tuberose," "Truth," "Wan- 
derer's Vision," "Herzeleide," "Nadson." They are neither 
transliterations nor translations (which latter should always be 
exactly like the original in form, language, thought and rythym), 
but original conceptions of the same theme in similar, though not 
always exactly identical, verbiage, even though at times this may 
be word for word the same. Therefore the fact that these poems 
have sisters in German should not detract from their merit, — should 
they possess any. The author believes that few readers would 
aver that the poem of "The Blizzard," instar omnium, which 
appeared for the first time years ago in a lyrical journal of the 
Fatherland, does not sound entirely original in the English tongue. 

There is some consolation to know that criticism too, concern- 
ing the vaJue of a poet's endeavors, changes and advances. Years 
ago the WTiter was actually "cut to pieces" by a leeurned young 
critic of eighteen summers. This savant, I am sorry to say, was 



—IX— 

not only unjust, but fairly ignorant. He died soon after our little 
encounter in one of the European lyrical magazines, — whether 
from the effects of his "critique," or not, could not be ascertained. 
The youth "left no good hair" upon the head of your poetical tyro, 
though it may be divulged that the name of the tyro appeared 
about as often in print under certain verses published by that criti- 
cal magagine, as the name of the critic glittered in the same store- 
house of lyric art. 

About this time another German reader found it somewhat 
of a task to determine that "this poet" was a non-entity. He de- 
clcired concerning a certain poem about Buddha and Christ, later 
admired by Theologians and others, that the author of "these 
verses," since a layman, could have no knowledge of theological 
wisdom and should therefore humbly permit only profes- 
sional men to wnrite verses on religious themes. Verily, a fine literary 
standpoint, concerning which I need add nothing in refutation! 
Among the things which the reverend gentleman did not know 
was the fact, — though it was unimportant zmd non-essential ! — 
that the writer of that German book of verses happened to be 
indeed a colleague and a "theolog," a young doctor of phisosophy, 
who had studied theology at home and abroad for some yeaurs, and 
was therefore not unversed with his theme, having devoted special 
studies to "compcirative religions" and studied oriental wisdom in 
the original tongue. Though one thing, to be sure, had been 
neglected. Had the poet signed his double title, and legitimately 
made his professional bow, everything would have been different. 
As it was, there naturally appeared on the title-page only the simple 
and unknown name of an obscure little light, — if light at all. 

Some years later one of the author's poems, which appears in 
these pages, was offered to a "literary critic" of Chicago for his 
opinion, and that oracle divined something like this : "commonplace 



— X— 

in style, badly padded, writer no poet." The "non-poetic writer," 
however, had the privilege of laying down a hard, round, silver 
Dollar for this bit of valuable advice ! — Recently this very same 
piece of "commonplace poetry" inspired one of my artist-friends to 
make one of the strongest illustrations to be found in the book. It 
was a pleasure to see the intelligent features of this man enlight- 
ened, when the poem was first read to him, and to watch how 
instinctively and intuitively the entire mental picture with all its 
details presented itself to him. Is it not proof conclusive con- 
cerning the poetic value of any verses, when they thus appeal to 
poetic and artistic minds, and their objective interpretation agrees 
so beautifully with the conception of the author and his descrip- 
tion ? What the "critic" above mentioned lacked, the artist possessed, 
— but while the literary judge did not even possess knowledge of 
the various forms of versification and of the rules of onomatopoesy 
and musical repitition (such as the study of French poetry might 
easily have taught, if English would not suffice him), yet his great- 
est fault was the lack of intuitive perception, - a gift which not only 
the poet, but likewise the critic must have received from the Muses. 

AH this is interesting, and may be dwelt upon here for the 
encouragement of young talents, who cire striving to attain poetic 
laurel. How often, — thus they may encourage themselves — 
how often the stone which was to not a few a stumbling block, and 
which was rejected by the builders — in this case the critics, 
though they often prove more art- destructive than art-co/7structive ! — 
has become the foundation-stone and the head of the corner. — 
For the true talent — not to speak of the genius ! — is never 
daunted, and proceeds with head erect, with an undismayed coun- 
tenance, endowed with a strong faith in his mission and the ultimate 
success of his message, (and should it be ages, ages before these 
wtII be recognized 3uid valued !) forward on the path to honor, 



—XI— 

glory and immortality. What matters it to him that they who stand 
around do scoff and laugh ? They name him an Idealist. Such 
he is. But as such more Realist than they — even should he 
never reach the goal ! 

He never believes that the tide of the art poetic can for a 
moment be hemmed, — that tide which surges forweird to clasp him 
and carry him aloft, strong and exultant. But he knows also that 
the growth of poetry cannot be forced ; that the art cannot even 
be learned, — though its dozen rules may soon be mastered. Study 
the Poets ! Aye, a double-edged sword ! And the easiest way 
in the world to kill genius ! You may know Addison and Byron, 
Chaucer auid Dryden, Emerson, Fenelon, Goethe, and Keats and 
Lanier and Omar Kayyam, and all the rest of the world's poets, 
according to the alphabet, and their works by heart, and yet not 
have the vital spark, — for it is still true that the poet is bom, and 
not made. 

Some time ago a Professor of Literature in one of the 
Universities in giving his criticism of verses submitted to him saw 
in them not the lesson which they wished to convey, but a "higher 
thought," a "tribute all unwittingly made," in favor of some meta- 
physical theory which happened to be in the mind of the erudite 
pedagogue. All ye Gods of Olympos ! The prayer of the writer 
of this preface can only be that the verses of this little volume be 
not read in such a frame of mind. 

We are living in a time when happily some of the set rules 
of literature and even some of its aocioms cure being revolutionized. 
That a poetic genius should have liberty and a wide playground 
for his spontaneous ebullitions, — though naturaJly not without the 
sanitary restraint which all art imposes, — is a suggestion whose 
rejuvenating effect has already been felt. 



—XII— 

Having spoken of the negative criticisms vv^hich the author, 
w^hether merited or not, has received in the past, it must be his 
duty to refer also to the fact that the criticisms of late years, whether 
in one language or the other, have changed completely in their 
tenor — merited or not ! — and that in referring to the German- 
American poets vv^ho stcind in the front rank reference is made 
without exception, no matter vv^hat the stcindpoint of the critic, to 
"the editor himself." 

And thus the writer of this preface has after all apologized 
for this his first lyrical work in English and showni not only how he 
has passed through the school of criticism in two countries and 
languages, but has also offered to produce some of the most recent 
credentials, among which may be the judgement of a critic well- 
known on two continents, who has officially declared that the 
writer is in both languages "a poet of no meaui order." 

Again thanking those esteemed friends, who have helped to 
make this book as it now presents itself a possibility, as well as all 
those who may help it on to recognition and understanding in the 
future, the closing remark must be, that it is the hope of the author 
that true perfection in art may evermore be most arduously striven 
for in the changing battles of this life, and that some of the faithful 
devotees of the divine art may even attain upon this sphere the 
object of their cherished desire. 




To the Honeysuckle 



Painting by E. L. Henry, 1906 



Zo the 1F)onei26uckle 




H, LONICERA, pure and longing flower, 

That throngs from out a nest of glossy green, 
More spotless white than Luna's glistening sheen, 

Thou art the sweetest blossom of my bower. 



Thy honeyed throat sends forth an odor-shower. 
That tells me in the stilly night, I ween, 
A story of that beauty that has been 

And ever will remain earth's dearest dower. 



Yea, thy sweetscented soul breathes naught but love, 
A love untainted with bold passion's madness. ~ 
Ah, could my life be spent thus, sent above. 



As perfume to the breeze, dispelling sadness, ~ 

My love the earth's, no longer treasure-trove, 
Cast to the winds, and full of smiling gladness. 



* 



Cbr^santbemum 




TANDING there 
A goddess fair 

Breathes from her sweet auroral lips 
Into the crystal air. 
She dips 

Her form, and from the frost she nips 
A flower rare. 

A flower rare 

With silken hair 

And silv'ry dress of snow-white plume. 

And on each glossy tress 

Doth press 

The goddess, in her graceful bloom, 

A warm ceiress. 

A warm caress ! 

*Tis nothing less 

Thcin {ail Autumna's last bequest : 

A molten, golden tear. ~ 

So dear 

The flower is she kissed and blessed 

To her,-- so decir! 




^be jFirc*jFll2 



[HROUGH the saent sway 
Of mystic night 
In black array 
They wing their way ~ 
Those little sparks at night, 
That spread in light delight 
Their brilliance bright. 



My sentient soul, I 

Tlius in the sight ; 

Of earth's dark dole 

Behold thy goal: 

Make bright the brooding night, \ 

And with thine litde light , 

Soar to the hight ! * ' 



tCbe Sea*(5uU 




HE Sea-gull dips into the sea. — 
Behold her breast 
Upon the wavelets rest. 
As thus she skims o'er the foaming sea. 

The sea-gull dips into the sea 

But for a thought. 

Then up the sunlight-sought 

And silvery vmgs flee from the sea, 

And golden drops from out the sea 

Drip from her breast, 

That touched in passing rest 

For but one thought the foaming sea. ~ 

4t • « 

Thus may my soul dip to the sea 
And snatch a thought 
From off the silverwrought 
White crest of the Sea of Poesie — 

That golden peaih of Poesie 
And peals of song 
May from the bosom throng, 
And glide into Life's restless sea. 




Zhc praideflowet 

RAIRIE, O Prairie, 
Whence shall I go ? 
Prairie, O Prairie, 
Why is it so ? 

Prairie, O Prairie, 
Make me but free ! 
No one, no one 
Ceureth for me ! 

Prairie, O Prairie, 
Take this my child. — 
Leave to Thine care the 
Flower so wild ! 

Prairie, O Prairie, - 
O what a shame ! ~ 
Bom on the Prairie — 
Minus a name. 

Prairie, O Prairie, 
Where is my grave? — 
Prairie, O Prairie, - 
No one to save ? ! 



* 



^0 the Xotos 




HOU God-sent blossom, on the bosom waving 
Of beatific seas in sacred, sunkissed lands. 
That from celestial light receives commands. 

Around Thy roots the gentle ripplets laving, — 



Like Thee My Soul through Life is ever braving. 
Surrounded so by torrid, tropic samds 
In ever moving waters still it stands, 

And for this Life Eternal Light is craving. 



O palefaced Lotos, often do I wonder. 

How Buddha does with Wisdom fill our Waking. 
Then, then—in lunar stillness—do I ponder, — 

My thoughts in Dresunland, Lotos-secrets drinking, 

Into Life's darkling Nile peile pettJs sinking : — 
What be of Human Souls the Woof and Making. 



TLo the atc==Hobt 




H. VIOLET UGHT. 
Against an opal sky, 
Through which the golden stars of night 

Are climbing high 
Into the moon's blue arms and bright,— 



Oh, Violet Light, 
That lookest down upon 
The dark highway to left and right. 

While hasten on 
Black forms in frolick through the night ; ~ 

Oh, Voilet Light 
Betwixt the sky and earth, 
Mixed equally with black and bright 

Sadness auid mirth, — 
What music swingst thou from thine hight ? 



Ah, Violet Light, 
Art thou a Savior bold. 
Who brings the Vict'ry in the Fight, 

The Age of Gold, 
Salvation from all Sin's dark Might ? 

Or, Violet Light, 
Art thou but like ais we : 
Prone to the fate of bliss and blight, 

Unceasingly 
A weak and changing, flick'ring sight ? 

Oh, Violet Light, 
Sing on thy tale of dole. — 
Sing on, with crimson joys bedight, 

In cr3^tal bowl,-- 
Thou Sister of My Soul, blue light ! 



flD^ Sono 




WRITE not to agitate - 
When I describe the misery 
Of the Poor of the Earth, 
When I touch the shackles 

Of the pestbom slave. 

When I call man 

A Parasite 

Of this fat earth. 

Who gluttons on it for a while, 

That he may fertilize it longer. 
I write not to agitate. 

And make him still more selfish 

And selfcomplacent 

Tlian he already is ~ 

Be he millionaire or pauper. — 
I write not to agitate. 



I preach not to anarchize ~ 
When I touch upon the sins 
Of the heartless wretch, 
Who, drest in purple. 
And deckt with gold, 
Gets up from gorging, sinful meals, 
A drunken sot, 

To totter to a perfumed bed of lust. 
And sleep away his bout 



10 



In the arms and charms of some sly, scheeming ' 

Cleopatra, j 

Who still lays claim ] 

To that oh misused title": Woman. — | 

I preach not to anarchize — 
When prophetlike I say: i 

"Thou zurt the man!" i 

To him upon the yellow throne 

With crystal crown, ~ j 

When with high vengeance i 

I tell him : who has robbed 
The poor man of his right, 

His home, his love, I 

His "little lamb," ! 

And all, j 

And how he tramples down 
The flowerhood of God, made not by man :~ 
The Soul, the Ghost, the Life, ~ 

~Yea, the Eternal Life ' 

Of his "free brother"; ~ ' 

And how he c)aiicaUy murders the humbler half i 

Of free humanity. — . 

I preach not to anarchize, | 

Or make the poor mam's mettle , 

Seeth high and boil within, — " 

Nor call forth brutal hate and envy 

Of his "better brother." i 

I do not wish to rouse the dormant - ij 

- Nay, nay : - the ever wakeful -- 

Animal in man, ~ \ 

The greed of the uncivilised, h 

\ 



1 1 



The pushed-back and forsaken, 
The Proletariat. ~ 

I do not wish to anarchize. 



I sing not to anathematize. — 
My Lyre is the Poet's Harp, 
The poet's, sweet and true. 
The poet called of God, 
Who suffers still and sings 
Of brighter and of better things ~ 
Far out mto the sky of future times. 
Far staurs, — far stars. 
That glisten down 
Through a million years. 
And send their wireless despatch 
Deep down into the poet's lightened soul, 
~A well of incandescent lumination, ~ 
Though everything is dark and drear around. 
And makes him happy, makes him glad. 
While still his life is lone and sad, ~ 
And he may perish for the wauit of food ~ 
And want of kindred souls. 

Whose thoughts attune to his. 



I sing not poems of passion ~ 
To rouse the ire 
And rouse the fire 
Of the fox, the lynx and wolf 
In "God-created" man. — 



12 

Did Christ so teach. 
Did Christ so preach, 
While yet he called the Pharisees 
Sons of the Devil and the Lie ? — 
Was not the keynote of His Life : 
"O Father, do forgive them. 
For they know not w^hat they do. 
And they know not truth from lie ! 
O Father, do forgive them!" ? 



I sing not "Quos Ego!" *) 
To rouse the ocean into hissing billows, 
Or cause a blizzardstorm of Anarchy, 
That men become hyenas, 
And women raving, naked maniacs. 
Which spill the warm and reeking blood 
Of fellowmen 

Like that of cattle in the stockyards 
Of millioned cities, ~ 
Far worse than war, 

The war of the White and " 'Peaceful' Tsar" 
Against the Crimson Kingdom of the Rising Sun. 

1 would not dare sing thus ! 
Would it be still a song, 
A song that heavenward 
Doth wing the soul ? 
Would it not hellward wend its way ? — 
Would it be Tenor rich and sweet, 
Or would it be tremendously base bass, — 
A Bass from the profoundest depths of Sin, — 
More like the croaking of a craven raven ? — 



(♦Virgil uses this elliptical expression: "which I'' to 



13 



Would I not be more gory 
Than Napoleon and his story. 
From whom Deliverance prayed 
The widows and the orphans, 
And whom they shuddering caUed 
His black, black majesty, - 
Satanic Majesty ? ! ~ 

Would 1 be like that august King and Kaiser, 
Wilhem the Victor, 

The Mighty Prince of Peace and King of Glory ? 
Or like The Great Emancipator 
Of America the Greater ? — 
Ah, what am I, that I dare drag 
Into the flaming fire and the crimson sea 
A thousand, ~ nay : a million human souls, — 
Whose heart but beats as mine, ~ 
And carry their dear life 
In their own hands ! 



I do not sing to battle. 
For I'm a child of peace. — 
But I assent to him, the silent great commander. 
The greatest strategist of modem times. 
Who emphasized the Roman Warning : 
"Si, si vis Pacem, para Bellum!" 
And I, too, cry : "Prepare, ~ 
Prepare for War in times of Peace !" — 
And when I show you my kaleidoscope of life 
And heaven's horoscope — 
I leave you to yourself. 
I do not even hint. 
Do not suggest. 
I simply show my book — 
My heart — to you, 
And let you think the rest. — 



14 



What matters it that I should pine 
And die alone. 
Rejected by my time, 
Unknown, uncared for and forlorn, — 
And weak and sickly. 
And a pauper? — 

The little babe that in yon cradle lies, 
And laughs and moans, and smiles and cries. 
Is loved none less 

That she her thoughts cannot express. — 
And when I show you sorrow, 
Do I not show you life ? 

When from the Battlefield some scenes I borrow, 
Do 1 not show you strife ? — 
And thus the Strife of Life 
I show, and show you thus 
The Life of Strife. 



What matters it to you. 
That you should know me not, — 
That I, without a monument, 
Should be forgot ? — 
The Strife of Life 
Will never end. 

And if my Tunes but touch your soul's 
So sensitively softstringed scale. 
And major chords and minor strains, — 
At times in modem dissonance 
And with Wagnerian Motive-rhythms, — 
At last in half an harmony die out — 
— Should thus it please the Great Composer, 

Who writes the harmonies of the stars 

So like ''calando e smorzando," —■ 

And turbulence and tribulation 

Be quelled by quiet peace and rest, — 



15 



I'm satisfied and I am blest — 

And live forever — in my songs — and yours 

For they are yours. — 

Yea, thus I smg: — 
To pacify, — subdue ! — 
My battle-songs. 

My ballads of the Strife and Life.— 
And all morendo,— 

All morendo ! 



Ich dien ! — Ich dien ! — 
Let others write in flames 
And ride in chariots of fire. — 
I sing to pacify, subdue 
The flames of greed and ire. 
I sing to battle on the campgrounds of the Soul, 
And not with fist zmd steel and siege and gun, — 
But with the weapons of the Spirit. — 
And thus I sing my Battle-songs, 
The songs of life and strife, 
And sing them, sing them 

Galando e smoizando. 



Calando e smorzando. a musical direction in the 
Italian, signifving a "langiiishing and gradually extin- > 

guishing melody. '< 

Morendo, a further musical direction, denoting the 
dying away" of the last chords, in their faintest vibra- 
tions. 

Ich dien, "I serve I" motto in the escutcheon of the i 

Prince of Wales. i 

'i 

"i 



16 



H Manberer's IDision 



*• ^ 



HE hoary head of herding hills, 
With firs and pines as sentinels ! 
Veiled with neaur night's forboding spells, 
And misty shroud o'er rocks and rills ! 



But right and left the outstretched hands 
Of Angels bright now rift the clouds. 
And lift aside the silv'ry shrouds. 
To crown the hills with golden bands ! — 

There in a vailley, hid by trees, 
A roseclad smgle cottage sleeps, 
And in it one the nightwatch keeps, 
From whose sad eyes all solace flees. 



My parted Love ! My Vision, — Star ! 
Could I but kneel and kiss that face! 
Could treasure but one sweet embrace ! — 
Alas, alas! — Too late! — Too far! 



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17 

Zo the Cloub 

a Sou^^ ipoem 

SHADOW of the cloud, do let me flee 

High up the mountain and its meadows green, 
High up, high up beyond the dark ravine ; 

O let me flee, and let me fly with thee ! 



O silvery cloud, do let me flee with thee 

And with thine shadows' changing tourmaline, 
O let me fly with thee, where thou hast been. 

And spread my wings high o'er the mountain-tree. 



O let me spread my soul, where thou dost flee. 

And, dreaming, lo<)>se myself in opal air. 
O hast'ning cloud, do let me fly with thee. 



O let me flee, as swift as thou dost flee, 

That to the cloud my soul be married there. 
O let this restless, dreaming shadow flee ! 




18 

TOLD it Thee in accents cold and cruel : — 
Thy moistening look betrayed that Thou didst love me. 
And in Thine hands Thy flaming heart Thou borest ! — 
"No future life -- My faith hath burned its fuel ! . . . 



There is not one below, or high above me. 

Who does the good. We're all alike : the forest. 

The farest and the rest : - all selfish preachers, - 

All Parasites! - What ? Art ? ! -- Can she not move me ? ~ 

I laughed. -- " "But ~ God '. - Forget not that thou woresl 
In happier days a smile upon thy features !" " — 
Enraged I sneered : "He must be like His creatures ! -- 
Am I a Theolog ? - Fudge ! -- Thou me borest !"-- 

I saw Thee pale. Thy lips began to quiver. 
Thou hadst not from Thine illness quite recovered. — 
Just then our ship sank down into the darkness, 
And through her hull there aept a creaking shiver. 

And over steepest billows high we hovered, 
While blackish clouds portrayed us heaven's starkness. - 
And then, Marie, I felt Thy soulwaves surging 
Against mine own, ~ while loud Jupiter rovered. 



19 



At last the Thunderer's aim grew tame and markless. 
Still calmneess came. Then ceased the winds their urging, 
Tlie hieroglyphic skyships ceased their searching, — 
And safe our boat came out of depth and darkness. - 



Behold, then, suddenly, from flowing tresses 
Of fleecy form there rose a head sublimely ; ~ 
A whitelocked head, above an ivory shoulder, 
Bowed down upon the sea, with glad cztfesses. 

And right and left, with outstretched arms, a timely 
Gold sunbeamladder fixed the Heavenly Molder, - 
And thus The Aged One sent down His Blessing. 
It made me think of Tizian's painting primely.*) 



And as I gazed, the beaming look waxed bolder. 
Rosehued became Thy cheek from heaven's caressing. 
I sank upon my knees, ~ as Thee addressing 
I heard the Splendid Form, ~ a dazed beholder. ~ 



*)The Ascension of "Maria, La Assunta." 

The kind readers will confer a favor upon the author, as well 
as the person herein commemorated, by pronouncing the name: 
Maree-ah.— No poet would be culpable of such a cacophonous pro- 
nunciation, as IS vuglarly bestowed upon this splendid name. 



20 

" "GOD FATHER !" " Thou dist lisp in admirarion. 
From out Thine Heart I heard Thy song egressing. ~ 
And then I understood the princely painter, 
And understood his holy revelation. 

But while I prayed, this purple wonder guessing, 
Thou didst ascend. Thy saintly mien grew fainter, ~ 
The sea beneath, with all its sinful hisses, 
No more around Thy sacred person pressing. 

And I emplored : "O keep me from the Tainter, 
Maria Mediatress, Mother of Blisses !" ~ 
Her garment's seam I covered with my kisses — 
As passing up my Holy Love grew sainter. 



.... JEnvol. 

Maria ! All too sweet was sweet Love's vision. 
My dream is dead ! I dropt it in the oceeui. 
The cold world called me back to its derision, 
And ah, I suffered for that warm emotion ! 
My love on life's high sea found soon elision. — 
A beggar, beggeu* ~ minus mirth and mission — 
I wander through the desert, with no potion. ~ 
And yet — for once I kissed Thee, sweetest vision. 
And held Thee in mine arm with love's fruition ! 



21 



^rom tbe (Bteat Mbite Usarbom 




ROM the Great White Tzardom to the Unknown Land 
Russia's heavy sons marched out, marched out, 

marched out 
By tenthousands, in a long-stretched, mighty band, 
"For the Tzar and Russia's Honor !" sounds their 

shout. 



Many a mother's bitter, burning tear 
Drops upon the bowed head of an only son, 
Meuiy a father's nerve with uncontrollable fear 
Twitches in his weathered face : "he's gone, he's gone !" 

From the Great White Tzardom to the Unknown Land 
Russia's heavy sons march out, march out, march out 
By tenthousands, in a long-stretched, winding band. — 
"For the Tzar and Russia's Honor !" loud they shout. 

Sobbing children hang around their father's neck. 
Clings to one his wnfe and clasps him, hand and heart. 
But the soldier, dreamingly, with love's last beck. 
With a kiss, farewell, into the night doth dart. 



From the Great White Tzardom to the Unknown Land 
Russia's doughty sons march out, march out 
By tenthousands, in a long, long, mighty band, — 
"For the Tzar and Russia's Honor !" so they shout. 



22 

Herded, huddled, hustled along tenthousand Werst 
They are jostled into the Land of Death and Doom ; 
Men and youths in bloody battle-lore unversed, — 
Men who know not how or why — to Dreamland's gloom. 

From the Great White Tzardom to the Unknown L£md 
Russia's dreaming sons march out, march out, march out — 
By tenthousands, in a long-stretched, waiting band. 
"For the Tzar and Russia's Glory !" glad they shout. 

"There they are, the heathen devils ! — There — and there !" — 
Then they grasp their guns with feverish, twitching hand. — 
"Kill them ! - For the Tzar ! - Where are the Heathens, - where ?-" 
And with expectaoit eye they wait, — cmd wait — and stand. 

From the Great White Tzardom to the Unknown Land 
Russia's fearlesss sons mairch out, march out, march out — 
By tenthousands, in a long-stretched jolly band. 
"For the Tzar cind Russia's Honor !" goes their shout. 

"Where are they ? We'll show them !" — What a noise ensues ! 
Cannon-thunder ! — Powder-lightning ! — Hail of shells I — 
Everywhere grim Death demands reluctant dues. — 
On Manchuria's Field the Cannon booms and yells. 

From the Great White Tzardom to the Unknown Land 
Russia's ponderous sons marched out, marched out, metfched out, 
By tenthousands in a long-stretched, waiting band, 
And they loud for the Tzar and Russia's Honor shout. 



23 

One, and then another, quickly sinks — and dies, 
Who,— w/jo struck them ?— Where,— vv/iere is the hellish fiend ?- 
Pale around *he upturned nose the Cosack lies. — 
Opens yet his eyes, from life already weaned. 

From the Great White Tzardon to the Far, Far Land 
Russia's wearied soldiers still march out, — march out. 
By the thousands, in a long — stretched, halting band. 
Claiming Victory for the Tzar with lusty shout. 

Wondering, silent, with that questioning, vacant staure — 
Opens one his eyes — from life already weaned : — 
"Was that why we left our happy home so fair, — 
Marching tenthousand wersts to an unseen fiend ?" — 

From the Great White Tzardom to the Far, Far Land 
Russia's mighty sons marched out, marched out, mcirched out,- 
By tenthousands, in a long, — long, — long, — long band, — 
"For the Tzar and Russia's Honor !" shouting loud. 

Weary with their daily meurches through the mire. 
Starving in Siberian cold and storms they wait. — 

"Ready ! — You shall see the deadly foe — and fire !" 

But they lie — and wait to be but Satan's bait. 

From the Great White Tzardom to the Unknown Land 
Russia's longing sons mau-ched out, marched, mjirched out — 
By the thousands, thousands, in a long-stretched band. 
"For the Tzar and Russia's Honor !" glad they shout. 



24 

Is this ^Helheim^ not ? — we 've traveled through the dark, 
Black ravines of anguish more than "nine nights" through, — 
Through the "turbid river's" with the venoms' mark. 
Full oi slimy snakes and "steely swords," so blue ! 

We have traveled through the gloomy mists and daik 
To the "harshly creaking mountain-gates oi Hell," — 
And the "blood-stained dog of war" with yelping bark 
Flies at us with glaring eyes and hideous yell !— 

From the Great White Tzardom to the Unknown Land 
Russia's dying sons march out — maurch out, — march out. 
And by thousands, thousands, in the long-stretched band, 
"For the Tzar and Russia's Glory !" still they shout. 

We are weary, — weeury, — wecuy ! — Give us Rest ! 

Silent Rest ! We welcome thee, thou unseen foe ! — 

Silently we die, — we die — and long for Rest, — 

And the Cannon — is an — Angel — to our Woe ! 

From the Great White Tzardom to the Unknown Land 
Russia's weary sons marched out, — mcirched out, — maiched out. 
By the thouscuids, thouseinds — in a heaping band. — 
"For the Tzar — and Russia's — Honor .'^ dies their shout. 



25 



^be Bli33arb 




HE Blizzard blows, 

The Blizzard goes 
And throws his woes into the wind. 

Wild Boreas howls, 

And all his ghouls 
Dance through the day, bleak, black and blind. 



The Blizzard storms. 

Fast flee the forms 
In shrouds his fury rides to death. 

His locks are white 

From frost and flight. 
And snow and ice fall from his breath. 

TTie Blizzard roars, 

Like bulls and boars 
Stampeding o'er the trembling plain. 

And where he bawls 

And barks and calls 
There follows fear and follows pain. 

The Blizzard blows. 

And throws his snows 
Upon the fields that cry for rest. 

But no, ah no, ~ 

He dare not go — 
Until his doom looms through the West. 



26 

Sermon of the Snow 




ORTH from the throne of God in brightest heaven, 
The "Araboth," the highest of the seven 
Abodes of the Almighty Judge of Eons, 
Breaks forth His Word, to Angel Michael given : 
"Now let my snowflakes earthwaurdly be driven, 
Like flocks of doves, to sing on earth their peons !" 



And Michael, in his soft, white garment, sparkling. 
Bedecked with diamonds and frozen crystals, 
Calls to his aid the Blizzard and the Mistrals. 
Then through the clouds of heaven, thick and darkling. 
Descends he quicklly from the Throne of Glory, 
And brings to young and hoary his white story. 

But while from 'neath the Foot-stool of the Highest, 
The heavens' sixth, with flame and fire guided, 
These silver treasuries,— to God's stool nighest. 
And by his sworded servants ever Wcurded, — 
Are being spent, and fleecy flakes are falling. 
The angels bow at God's soft voice and calling. 

And Eloha doth speak this word of blessing : 
"Just as that black and brooding pool now covers — 
Deep down there on the earth the chaste white dressing, 
While over all my watching Angel hovers, 
So shall at last earth's guilt and dark lamenting 
Find through Mine Endless love a Glorious Endmg !"— 



27 

Zo the XCubctose 




Y night I dreamt in the moon's soft shimmer, 
In the silent chamber's gloom and glimmer. 
That I saw from the lips of lilies dropping 
Pale liquid pearls in countless numbers, ~ 
And a whitewinged Angel's teaurs, through slumbers, 
Heard I upon my casket throbbing. 



And with deep perfume, allsurrounding, 
I saw myself in death's abounding, 
Within the tomb and in the casket, 
—My heart with all hearts' sorrow freighted, 
And all the world's dark morrow weighted 
Upon the breast in the flowerbasket. ~ 



Ah, all creation's ardent longings, 

The nameless grief of times and throngings, 

Which I supposed had long been vanquished, 

Came marching on in black procession, 

And with a dirgeful tearpossession 

They followed one, whose soul seemed anguished. 



28 

And all the perfume of the flowers 
Fell faint, and all the birds in bowers 
Sank drooping down and hushed their choral 
And then pale Pain stooped down to visit. 
And kissed the soul with pangs exquisite, 
As he folded her in the petals floral. — 



Then from my burning brows descending 
I felt the molten tears, and ending 
And wending away the life so mortal. — 
My singing soul's sweetscented showers, — 
My lyrics, and thine pure, perfumed flowers 
Shall they united pass Death's portal ? 




29 

Urutb 

STOOD and gazed into the blueing sky. 

My spirit sailing on cerulean billows, 

And dreaming of the Truth, her Way and Why, 

While sentient clouds hung o'er the drooping willows. 



Then saw I sudden on a foaming charger 
A woman of resplendent form and mien. 
Her glory, power, might and main seemed larger 
Than any Empresses has ever been. 

And I knelt down upon my tottering knees. 
And hid my glowing face from light so blinding, 
Uutil I felt that I must look in these 
Refulgent eyes, so scorching and allfinding. 

For from my soul's dark depth I felt upwelling 
A question that must find its answer now. 
No longer would I bear its passion's quelling. - 
The vision heard it v^th a frowning brow. 

"How dar'st thou ask, thou weakling child of man. 
To see the Goddess Unapproachable ? -- 
Truth, Truth ! thou criest ? - Thinkest thou I can 
Reveal to thee the Fact Unbroachable ? ~ 



30 

Truth ? ~ Truth is everywhere, and yet is nowhere, 
Is everythmg, and nothing, yea forsooth, — 
The Great Some-how, and, aye, the Great So-where, 
And Light and Night ! -- All this, all this - is truth ! 

For ev'ry lie contains some grains of verity. 

And truth is not v^thout some taint of lie, 

Since no one knows sincerest Truth's sincerity, 

And not alone she roams through earth and sky !" — 

Thus speaking, while her orbs with lightning blazed. 
And hissed the serpents in her flowing tresses. 
She spurred the charger on, while still I gazed. 
And darted through the dancing wind's caresses. 

Since then I sink no more upon my knees. 
And heave no longer sighs for light of wisdom 
Unmixed with falsehood. I have conquered these. — 
To battle with the Truth — is now Life's Blissdom ! 



31 




a Simple ILfttle Ballab 



IXTY years they lived together, 

Upon one day they died together. 



There came a mighty flood. 
Their house no longer stood. ~ 

— "Now, Charles, we'll stay together !" 

— " "Louise, we'll die together !" " — 



"O, Charles, look there,~0 see !" — 

There house passed by a tree. 

They climbed upon the tree together. 

A moment not too soon. ~ 

A crash ! ~ ~ How pallid shone the moon ! 

But they were still together. ~ 



" "God saved us, little wife !" " he said in bliss, 
"He did, my Chau:Ies !" replied she with a kiss. 
~ "Since we do sleep not now together, 
We'll go to God some later day than this. ~ 
Not so ? — Both you and I together !" 



32 



Still twenty years they bore life's weather 
Bravely together, - still together. 



Then he lay down and closed his eyes. 
And she - she knew that now likewise 
She would go home — and closed her eyes. 
And so, as they believed, so childly wise. 
They lived and died together. 



Sixty years they lived together. 
Upon one day they died together. 



33 



Hutumnnfgbt 




HE night is slumbering still, the cloudships rest. 
Black trees in silent shadows bend and dream. 
With sleep divine creation all is blest, 
And nodding dew-drops cling to flower's seam. 



But yet a spinning song pervades the night. 

A choir composed of green cicadas thrills. 

And sends its message forth with steady might, — 

WhOe but my clock beats time ! ~ and runs and rills ; 



"Thus will it be a thousand years to come, ~ 
Tenthousand years, - as thousand years before. 

For never does the night return to home 

Tenthousand years one night but ~ and no more 1" 



34 



^be Milb. Milb BiUowmafb 




NIXIE, sprightly Nixie, 
Cease now thine frenzied dance ! 
I have not learned like a horse to prance ! 
Forget not, foam-clad girl, that nude 
Man's body is. Be not so rude ! 
Thou titter'st cind whirlstme around in a circle. O my!- 
Is that the custom where the Nixies ply ? 
Why thro west thou torquoise in mine eye ? ~ 
O, why was I caught by thine opal glances. 
To dance where the white, wild whirlpool dances, 
O Nixie, laughing Nixie? 



O Elfie, flirting Elfie, 
Stop, stop thy cruel game ! 
Forget not, pray, that man is tame ! 
Thine fleeting breath and the seething foam 
Take all my breath, and my senses roam, ~ 
And, ah, I feel thine dripping arms' embrace. 
As thou pressest me to thine pearly face. 
And whisperest in mine ear with grace 
The story of thine fervent passion 
In all thine fast and fitful fashion, 

O Elfie, willful Elfie! 



35 



O Nautchmaid, feral Nautchmaid, 
O Sutradhari, dear ! 
O Bayadere, come to^me near ! 
O show me thine exquisite charms, 
And let me rest in Cciressing arms 
For but one hour of burning passion's lust 
Upon thine frothborn roseate bust, 
Thine alabaster arms. ~ Thou must ! — 
Tenthousand tomans, -- bright, bright and twinkling,— 
I'll give for each kiss thee in an inkling. 

My skittish, dancing Nautchmaid ! 

O Bacchosmaid, exalting, ~ 
Mad Maenad and Brunhild, ~ 
O Thyiad, with frenzy filled, 
Willt thou devour Dionys ? 
How sweet and savage glare thine eyes, 
Nude dancing girl, as thou flashest the dagger of steel. 
And O, thine cruel thrust I feel. 
My heartblood drops and I stagger and reel. ~ 
Ah, but the red, too, flows from thine bosom's roses. 
Death me ~ and thee in his grasp encloses. 

Bold Billowmaid, exalting ! 



It will be apparent to all connoiseurs of Mythology that above poem in 
an original dithyrambic metre is a Pean exalting the dashing beauty of 
the brooks and rivers, the water-sprites. The commingling in the last 
stanza of the heroic names of Grecian and Teutonic Folklore and the com- 
parison of the nixes and elfs with the Bayaderes and Sutradharies, the 
dancing nautchmaids of India, may seem odd, but everybody knows 
nowadays that all the gods of pagan times were meant to be but per- 
soniflcations of the forces of nature, among all the nations. I acknowl- 
edge with gratitude that James Russell Lowell in his beautiful poem "The 
Brook" suggested to me the comparison of the brook with a nautchmaid 
and that I owe to him also the picture of the shining piece of gold that 
glitters on the form of the dancing maiden, the toman, a Persian coin of 
gold, equal to about two Dollars of American money. This very name 
seems to signify "tenthousand."— A comparison of the two poems, how- 
ever, will show that there is no lack of originality in the above production . 



36 



H 2)a^ in June 




T was a glorious day in June. 

The golden sun blazed from the heavens bright, 
While young and old, rejoicing, happy, free, 
Sang songs of gratitude. In dresses white 
Marched lines of children to the wharf, to see 
The festooned steamer, and with proud delight 
They boarded it and greeted joyfully. 
While the band began its tune. 



It was a glorious day in June, 
When fifteen hundred people, pleasure-bent. 
From old Saint Mark's, the Lutheran Sunday School, 
Upon the gallant "General Slocum" went, 
And all the flags were touched by breezes cool, 
When out its foam into the waters sent 
The paddling vessel's mighty wheeling spool. 

While loud the band was playing its tune. 

!t was a glorious day in June, 
When from the white-dressed throng on Anthem's wing 
The smiling heavens heard the battle-cry 
And triumph-song to the Almighty King, 
Of trusting children to their God on High, 
—The Lord, to whom the stars their tribute brmg : ~ 
"A Mighty Fortress !" ~ rentmg sea and sky, - 

Awile the band was playing the tune. 



37 



It was a glorious day in June. 
But then - while yet the burdened boat plowed through 
The placid waters of the City's bay 
O'er sportive kissmg waves of green and blue 
To that fair pleasure-island on the way, 
Some little fright arose, that waxed and grew, -- 
A cry that made that day a honor-day, 

While yet the band was playing the tune. 



It was a glorious day m June. 
But awful, fearful, - frightful all the the more 
That penetrating sudden cry of "Fire !" 
Its terror to the heart's most secret core 
In all them wrought who knew this omen dire. ~ 
There was no hemming back the deadly lore, 
For heaven's grace had turned to Heaven's ire, 

While yet the band was playing its tune. 



It was a glaring day in June. 
And the flames leaped high and crackled loud for joy, 
While they ate their way and danced to the topmost mast, 
With ever new flames greeting them "ahoy !" 
But the trembling children cried, men stood aghast. 
And the lickmg flames, consuming child and toy, 
Transformed them to a maddened drove at last. 

Yet tried to play the band glad tune. 



38 



It was an awful day in June. 
The children's dance of frolick turned to dance 
Of death, the choral to a mciniac's shriek. 
The fire sccunpered swifter than a glance, 
And spread from deck to deck its aimson streak. 
Then in the waves did many seek life's chance. 
While others tottering fell, faint, sick and weak. - 

And yet the bcuid played sore its tune. 



It is a terrible day in June. 
The burning women on the flaming deck 
Hold high aloft the infant in their arm. 
And cry with that stone-melting mother's beck 
To Mercy, that their dearest may not harm 
The sea of flames. Then many, neck on neck. 
Release their soul in love's last kiss, so warm. 

Does yet the band play gladdening tune ? 



Yea, yea ! A frightful day in June. 
And still the death-doomed vessel races on. 
No effort more to quench the flames, or save ! 
There frantic figures stand who vainly don 
"Preservers," which but drag to watery grave. 
And there the shore, which might so soon be won ! 
"Why does he steer away from help, the knave ?" 

Come, band, stop now thy dreary tune ! 



39 



A honid, honid day in June ! 
And still it hurries on, the death-doomed boat. 
Through waves of foam eind waves of human flesh, 
Of sinking forms and shrieking forms afloat, 
Entangled in a striving, struggling mesh, 
While curdling cries for help escape the throat 
Of those just saved to be endangered fresh. 

And still the heroes play their tune. 



It was a sad, sad day in June, 
When with that frenzied women's, children's throng 
The "Slocum" through Hell Gate tore to its doom, 
The mothers hurling babes into the strong 
Quick Current, standing in despair's dark gloom 
Upon the rails, — the frolick, deince and song 
Turned back, 2ind fiendish yells now in their room, - 

Amid the playing of the tune. 



A fearful, fearful day in June ! 
And still raced on the burning pleasure-craJt, 
Which tongues of fire enveloped to the mast, 
Through floating, sinking bodies fore and cift. 
While screamed and warned the City's voices vast. 
With flaming death afore, around, abaft — 
On that lone island dies away at last — 

The noble bands heroic tune. 



40 




(5oob fligbt, (Boob ILorb! 



HE Sun has kissed fair Sky with fervent kiss, 

And in His anas embrace and passion's flame 

She glows in violet delight and bliss, — 

As if She ne'er before had played Love's game. 



Ah, see the glittermg sabres of the maize, 
With piercing points, uplifted to the Sky! 
These are the Prairie's Sentinels, that gaze 
Into the roseate clouds, to see them by. 



Hist ! ~ Nature now doth say her Evening Prayer. ~ 
So still this autumn-evening is, — so still! . . . 
Does GOD not walk behind the lances there? — 
Good Night, Good Lord I — Sleep soft now. World and Will ! 



* 




The Batteler 



Painted In Mark I'opki". 1*507 



41 



XTbe Batteler 




AM a Batteler and bear the battle 
Within my breast wherever I go. 
Into my cradle this boon Wcis laid. 
Even as a child I fought for love 

And fought for life, and knevv^ no joy, ~ 

For every pleeisure banished seemed. 

I grew to be a man. This fond desire 

At last seemed realized, when, ah ! — 

The cup of youth weis snatched away 

And by the cup replaced of crimson blood. 

Of blood that welled up from wnthin 

To spill itself upon the earth, — 

—Green, greedy monster, never satisfied ! — 

I fought for bread and office 

Against a fitful fate, and sought 

Congenial clime, o'er all the earth, 

A homeless wanderer, stricken soul and body, 

Who prayed for life and love 

And meagerly found both, — 

But rich m sorrow, freighted down wath care. 

Aye, for my love I battled. 

And conquered her — against the world and God, 

Against commands of elders. 

Who, cold, decried and bold denied ! — 

How the slave-holder's scourge 

In hands of false and fawning brethren, 

Who mocked themselves as "Christians'' 



42 

And were but wolves in clothes of wool, 

Descended down upon my soul 

And pained it sorely night and day. 

O, how the scourge of blight and night, 

Of dau-lc despair, misfortune's heavy cloud, 

Hung over me, — a destitute ! 

And so forlorn, ~ ah, so forlorn ! 

And chided, despised and derided and shunned and avoided ! 

Respected but in name, in deed proscribed, 

Outlawed, exrighted and scorned ! ~ 

And all for why ? — 

I carried in my wounded heart 

The Battle for the Right and for the Truth ! 

And from the heart its song sprang to the mouth. ~ 

Hi, but the tone of my shrill clarinette 

Soared upward through the dusty air 

And did not fear the melancholy masses. 

That stood there, lowering, 

With gnashing teeth, and trembling 

With fury, fear and rage, ~ 

Who yet did listen to the mighty word from heaving breast, 

--Courageous word hissed forth with panting breath. 

With flaming tongue cind glowing hectic cheeks, — 

All silent, speechless, stunned, — 

That like the mighty torrents hom the mountains 

They from the reeur might rush 

And poimce upon him who thus fearless stood, 

When all his thunderbolts should be exhausted. — 

Aye, aye, ~ then was I the Batteler and bore 

The Battle's blood-bought Banner bravely ! 



43 



But I'm a Batteler still, emd bear the battle's flag 

Wherever I may go or stand in ready hand. 

My scarlet heart beats just its single rhythm : battle, 

Its everlasting rhythm : battle, battle, battle ! 

And I carry it in my hand through the battle-field of life. 

I carry it in my hand as the costliest of treasures. 

And as the Sultan's son, the penitent son. 

Did carry through the market's noise and press 

That crimson bowl, filled to the brim. 

While charged to lose none of its freight 

Upon the pain of death, ~ for close behind 

The Spahi follow^ed vsath the naked sword 

To execute the aw^ful penalty 

Upon the spilling only of a single drop. 

Not one, no, not a single glance did catch 

The turmoil of the mart ! — And so I ban my eye 

Alone upon mine hand that bears the treasure : 

The battle ~ in the precious crimson bowl, — 

That not the spying Spahi FAME may rob me of my life 

And love, and of the victory. 

And rob me of the freight of life ! 

And should I forge an enemy of each and every friend, 

And forfeit health, respect and peace, 

And wife and child and house and home, — 

I am a Batteler and bear the battle 

Into the world, into the dome, into each heart, — 

Into each heart that is inflamed bright by mine own — 

And should it burst for sorrow and for grief. 



44 



As Douglas in the dessert bore the heart 

Of good King Robert near his own 

And cried aloud : "Thou hast alway moved in advance, 

By night and day, ~ so shalt thou nowr show me the way 

Into the fight and fray, and may the Lord 

Beyond the battle- grave 

Desert not me and be true to me, 

As true I be to thee, and grant me but the boon I crave : 

One honest blow, one honest Christian chance 

Upon the heads of these pagan brats !" ~ 

So sounds my cry and I better the prayer 

And throw into the horde of the maddened crowd, 

That cries for my soul — my bleeding heart. 

And throw it to the crowd with all my strength ~ 

Aye, into the very midst of the rabbling rage. 

But no, it is not dead. 

Oh no, it is not dead ; — 

And it is not another's ! 

It is the living heart, the pulsing heart 

Of the crimson, scarlet, glowing battle ! 

And it is mine own, ~ mine own. 

Red, bleeding heart ! — 

And only from out of the fight, the raging battle. 

In the midst of the turbulent noise and the falling forms. 

The noise of the howling wolves of the field of battle. 

Will I rescue it and bring it back, ~ 

Amidst the thunder of the clashing shields. 

And the clanging music which the sabre yields. 



45 



Lord of the highest heavens, 

Thou Lord of War and of the Battlefield, 

With Thunder, Lightning and Thine Fireshield, 

Retain me Thou my flaming heart, so long I live. 

And grant me Thou the fight ! 

Oh, let me stand with spirit still undaunted. 

Ne'er bendmg to tyrannic sway 

In this broad empire of the brave ! 

My heart is captured by Queen Verity, 

And with the blue steelpoint of true sincerity. 

1 bow alone before the throne of Righteousness. 
And when I prostrate lie at last 

Upon the blood-stained purple field, 

With split and gashing crimson shield, — 

Tear out of the breast my scarlet heart. 

And fix it to the fluttering flag, 

The joyous flag, the conquering flag 

Of Freedom, Righteousness and Truth, — 

Teai out of the breeist my beating heeurt 

And fix it to the flag. 

The Bannerflag of Blood and Blazing Battle ! 



46 




H ^iraoc of the Besert 



HOT day on the Gizeh Plain. 

The Pyramid in cloudless sky 
Stands crowned by Sunshine's golden rain. 

The Sphinx with his eternal "Why?" 

Looks sleepily into the sun. 
I notice shadows 'round his eye. 



And still I ride. Not yet is won 

The goal in yonder blessed land. 
My life and strife are not yet done. 

But suddenly on the bleaching sand 

Before my horse appears a cloud, 
A mirage fashioned like a hand. 

Aye, like the hand that has endowed 

Itself to me for leave and love: — 
My Love's, who makes my life so proud. 

Ah, that it from the sky above 

Should throw a shuddering shadow there! 
What means it? Oh, what means it. Dove? — 

Gawk, Gawk ! — See there m purple air 

A sparrow-hawk *) with crimson head ! — 
What means the message from his lair? . . . . 

Oh God, my God ! . . . My Love — is dead f 



♦) According to Egyptian folklore the flight of a sparrow-hawk augurs 
the departure of a human soul to the beholder. 



47 



Ib^mnus 




ET me draw near to Thee, my God and Father, 
— Who knowest well the depths of seats the deepest. 
Though Thy existence be denied by thouseuids. 
That still forswear Thy Wisdom's Might and Wonder ! 



They mock Thee, and they sneer and jeer Thee, scoffing, 
That they may show their pride, conceit and knowledge. 
It were a cause of teaurful lamentation. 
Didst Thou not laugh at all such earthly folly ! 



E'en those assured of everlasting treaisures, 

Who look with scorn upon the humbler sinner, — 

With all their sighing, crying and denying 

Are they in Error's chains, by Death sunounded. 



Such easy scorn and cheap derisive laughter. 
The loud, long prayers £ind the little living. 
Destroy Thy power among the waiting meisses, 
And must efface Thy Countenance, so godly ! 



But he who once embraced Thee, soul and senses, 
Is ever Thine, and never knows division. 
He cannot live without Thine Love's effulgence, 
And heal, apart from Thee, from all his sufferings. 



48 



To Thee I come and praise Thee, withal fearful. 
Show me the path to Life and Truth Eternal, 
The Way of Life along this sinful valley ! — 
Thy Spirit but caui lead me through eaurth's darkness ! 



Send me a beam of vivid revelation 
Into the heart, borne down by cares and sorrows, 
O Lord, with Thee I change the night to daylight, 
Thou art my soul's, my mind's, my life's existence ! 



For shouldst Thou die, — then I, alas, must perish ! 
And art Thou dead, — then I am gone and buried ! 
Shouldst Thou not be, — then 1 have not existed ! 
But livest Thou, — belongs to me Life's Franchise ! 



And thus I cling to Thee, my Lord Salvation. 
And should I live, outlive a thousand eons, — 
Live in the cult of universal heroes, — 
Then only through thee, God, am I immortal ! 



49 



"Ube Ipro test of t be Siour" 

(Sculpture by Cw'us E. Dallin, World^s Fair, St. Louis, lyou. 




HAT will ye here, Palefaces, — 

Ye with your stealthy paces ? — 

Ye miserable beasts. 

So small of stature and so mean ! 

The demons in their drunken feasts 

Created ye, I ween. 

Who slaughters wantonly our geime, 

Defcunes the Prairie's virgin nemie, 

And tramps its grass to death ? 

Who robs fciir nature of its stature, 

And the Great Spirit of His Pow'r ? — 

Who in am evil hour 

\-\as brought us darkness, — death, — despair ? 

Who brought us firewater's hell, 

Hypocrisy and the lie so fell, — 

Hypocrisy with the lips of honey ? 

Yea, — and who, who brought 

Us foul amd filthy money. 

With which our souls ye bought ? — 

Who tears from out our heart 

Our fciith in that great Spirit's paut 

In this world's Vcist affairs, — 

The Spirit Great, 

Who did aeate 

The Red Mam with his joys and sorrows till, 

The Red Man, who before His Throne doth faJI 

And piously the Great One praises, — 



50 



Who toward Him heart and hand still raises, 
And thanks Him for the freeest avocation, 
Still granted to the Red Man's Nation ? — 
Tell me, who murders man and brother, 
Our fathers brave, our fighting sons ? — 
Who slaughtered our buffalo's meat by tons 
And tracked this kingly beast to death — 
As they would dare track us, until none other 
Dares to resume his breath, 
While that pale monster breathes ? — 
Who trampled under foot 
The Prairie, silently bequeathed 

To the Indian's sons, — those noble ones ? 

Say, say. 

Why block ye the way ? 

Forsaken by all graces, 

With your stealthy paces, — 

What do ye here, Palefaces ? 

Not so ? 

That agitates thine soul also, 

My true companion, noble steed ! 

Thou catchest the accursed scent 

Through the contaminated air. 

What have we done ? Say ! What obnoxious deed. 

That they should thus be bent 

Upon our taking off from steppes so fair ? 

Each fibre of thy noble body strains. — 

Back, back I say — and down upon thine haunches. 

Thou fiercest fiend! 

Back, back ! — I'll show thee now which course remains ! 



51 



Here's one who his anathema loud launches, 

Thou fiercest fiend, 

Against thme nude and sweating flank ; — 

One tearing back the bit, right frank, 

Into thy lacerated mouth, — 

Just as I in my vengeance here do pull 

This horse, this beast, to east and north and south. 

According to my will's own measurefull ! 

Now show thine muscle's fabric well, — 

Show me the stuff of which thou'rt made ! 

Defend thyself, unruly jade, 

Show whether thou canst fight, or tell 

Me that thou ait a Coward. — Come ! 

I'll teach thee — or go home ! 

Now show me what is in thine breaist! 

Now show me what there is within ! 

Defend thyself ! Here is the fist ! — 

Ye wish no peace, ye wish no rest ! 

No peace there is for ye auid me 

Upon one plain ! — Fight with your fist ! 

Here is the Fist ! Come on ! — We'll see ! — 

Blow, Westwind, blow ! 
Away it mow 
This awful plague ! - 
Awake, awake, 
And rid this virgin land 
From such dowdy, rowdy band ! — 
What wall ye here. Palefaces, 
With your satanish graces ? ! 
Here is the shaking fist, 
TTiat never once its ciim yet missed, — 

The uplifted fist, — the shaking fist 

The FIST!! 



52 



physical Xibertig 



statue by H. A. MacNeil, World's Fair, Saint Louis, 190U. 




N endless waste before him, 
I The liberty of grass that bore him, 
I So races the Bos 
Across 

The Prairie wide. 

And at the Buffalo's side. 

With whip in hand, above the Buffalo's hide, 

The Prairie's son, 

Unhampered still by dress, — 

In his right hand's caress 

The spear in battle won. — 

Here is the Blizzard of the Sun, — 

Here is the Stormwind of the Plains, 

That races 

O'er unconquered domains, — 

The creature that ruminating grazes, 

Where its wild tempestuous temper reigns, — 

The beast with stubborn head and staring look, 

That thrusts aside Fate's solemn spook, 

And will not brook. 

And will not stand 

Her hindring hand. — 

His spine is bent. 

Not stiff and spent, — 

But ever ready. 

And ever steady. 



53 



His shanks are round 

And sound, — 

Weighty, heighty, — 

Sinewous, sinuous, — 

Not a body fraught with frailty, — 

Nor masculinity, hard, angular and rough, — 

Yet to the marrow made of sternest stuff. — 

And thus declares this Femininity 

And this creature's strong infinity — 

How rounded out 

And sounded out 

This beast by Nature was invented ; 

To show what healthful Nature has intended. — 

And yet this kingly Mightbeast 

Takes its commands 

From eyes and hands 

Of that young boy, who ist he bovine's Lightfeast. . 

Freedom, Freedom! 

Thou dost Wonders alway. — 

Come, alight upon our clime ! 

Come, enlighten our time ! 

Thou, who dost Wonders alway, 

Make us rounder. 

Make us sounder ; 

Give us body-freedom, 

Give us spirit-freedom ; — 

Give us Nature's curvatureness ! 

Take thou Civilisation's mad duplicity ! 

Give us thine strong, stem simplicity ! 

Give us Healthdom, 

Give us Freeness, — 

Give us profound. 

Lofty Freedom! 



* 



54 



Zbc BU33atb. Ipcril of the flMains 

statuary by Solon H. Borghtm. World's Fair, Saint Louis, 190U. 




ELPLESS, suff'ring, — back to stormwind turned, 
Steuids the shiv'ring, wcciry Prziiriehorse 
On the Prairie bleak and dreary. 



Gray and dusky is the air and cold, 
From the North the icy Blizzard blows 
Over the Prairie chill and dreary. 

Weauy, weary does he bend his back 
T'ward his hoofs, and calls far out, far out 
To the Prairie dark and dreary. 

Hair and main are skeins of frozen ice. 
With his weeping eyes he begs for mercy. 
Begs the Prairie cold and dreary. 

Near the Comrade's beating, beating heart 
Crouches down a hoeiry, hoary mein. 
On the Prairie dark and dreary. 

And the Blizzard bulges through his mantle 
And his frozen locks cuid silver beard, 
On the Prairie, icy dreary. 



55 



Frozen peau-ls and necklaces of ice. 
Granted by the howling mocking Blizzard 
On the Prairie, deadly dreary; 

Frozen locks and tears of icy burden. 
Thrown to Pioneer and Prairie Paurent 
By the Blizzard, fond and cheery! 

But what purpose has to thee thine weapon ? — 
Dost thou wish to kill the buzzing Blizzju:d 
Of the Prairie, howling dreary ? — 

Whoo! The Blizzard mocks and hunts thee down. 
Fighting man, who grewest gray and hoary 
On the glad and joysome Prairie ! 

What the heat and labor of the Prairie 
Dried not of thy marrow, turns to ice — 
On the glad and joysome Prciirie ! 

Once more only will thine sad companion 
Fling his mane into the blinding main 
Of the Prairie, white and dreary. 

Loud launenting, timidly and sad, 
Refuge calls he, whilst his heart is breaking, 
On the Prairie, gray and dreary ; 

Whilst his veins are swelling, swelling larger. 
And his look is growing glassy, gleissy. 
On the Prairie, dark and dreary. 



66 



Then the black and piercing, shining orbs 
Of the vanquished tiller of the plains, 
On the Prairie, black and weary, 

— Suff'ring, silently, without a word, 
While the wind, the wind chills heart and soul 
On the cruel, cruel Prairie, — 

Then those black and penetrating orbs, 
'Neath the shaggy eyebrows all of ice. 
On the howling, howling Prairie, 

Break, — yea, break, without a murmur. 
At the deathcry of this cherished creature, 
On the Prairie cold and dreary; 

At the deathcry of this mute companion. 
Who did share his joys and sorrows all 
On the Prairie bleak and dreary. — 

Still the Blizzard blows and battles blindly. — 
— Man and beaist zure covered by the snows 
Of the Stormwind, bleak and dreary. — 




1-' 

"bJC 



57 



Ube flftibnigbt Urain 




HEN nightly in my bed I sleepless lie, 
When in my bed I lie with sleepless eye, 
Hear I the hissing freight-treiin speeding by. 
Awake, with trembling hand and burning brow. 
With eyes, that flame like living cojJs, I bow 
Me o'er the sheets and heaur the train speed by. 



White over the Prairie wide the Blizzaurd's Bride, 
With snow in flying locks, does ofttime stride. 
Or its monotone song repeats the falling rain. 
But never yet, through gust or reiin, in vain 
I watched with fevered brow, again, again. 
For the hissing noise of the fleeing midnight train. 

Far out, — far out in the dreadful dirth of night. 
First faint, as step of Death to wounded knight, 
I hear the sound, that thrills me while I hear. 
And makes me wring my hands for each new sound. 
Upcoming from the sleeping, creeping ground. 
To tell me : now it's nearer, — nearer, near ! 



It rounds a curve. The grating cars slide round. 
And from the hills the thrilling shrills rebound. 
Then over the bridge, while shivering timbers creak. 
And through the vale. And sporting, snorting up 
The steaming steed saeams stoutly "hip-hip-hup !" 
To the midnight ghouls, who answer loud the shriek. 



58 



The midnight steed, with blasphemous grunt and groan 
Against his lords ! Asthmatic with scorn and moan ! 
And fuming, raging and raving to the dull, dank sky, 
With eyes like coals in the skull of a starving slave ! 
A noble steed, but spumed to ignoble grave ! 
And I feel his breath and catch his burning eye. 

Ah, I feel his breath and catch his glowing eye ! 
And 1 laugh and scorn, while in my bed I lie. 
And bowing asthmatic me over the whitened sheets 
I live for a thought — (Ha, ha ! the world is dead ! -) 
With eyes alive, like coals in furnace red, — 
While on and on the midnight engine speeds. 

And now, and now — his shriek is gone and missed. 
The rising clouds of foam and fuming, hissed 
Into the skies, the skies have kissed and kissed. — 
To me the struggle and the steed's brave scorn 
Were Deeds of Life, — of which — alas ! — I'm shorn. 
My strife is past, — my rage : a mist, — a mist ! 

When nightly in my bed I sleepless lie, 
Then in my bed I lie with sleepless eye 
And fever thus. — Soon, Spirit Mine : — no more ! — 

The glowing eye, the burning brow — forgot ! 

But tell me : — wall I come again, — or not ? ! 

And tear to shreds the sheets that graveward bore 7 



59 

XCbalassa 

a IPbllosopbical JBallaD 




Thalassa, beloved Sea, 

My deepest soul's high ecstaisy, 
Where art Thou ? O where may 1 see 
Thy mien, and hear Thine minstrelsy ? 
From this sad desert set me free ! 
Assist me that I seek but Thee, 
O Thalassa, my longlost Sea ! 



Epicharmos in ages long, 

Long past gave Thee his gladdest song, 

High stood his name and praise among 

The v\ase in all that fcirfamed throng. 

But in his sw^eet Sicilian tongue 

He left aside "the right and wrong" 

And sang of Thalassa the Strong. 



O Thalassee, O cruel Sea ! 
Chained Colon cries in misery. 
The "New World" did discover he. 
The Old World's Glory gladly see. 
Hear now his doleful reverie : 
"O were I on the sea ! — Ah me, 
Had I but perished on the sea !" 



60 



How glorious there De Soto's fate, — 
There at dark Mississippi's gate I 
Forlorn and sick, without a mate. 
His ships destroyed, in hunger's strait. 
He dies at night cind sinks as freight 
Into the waters, which he made 
Worldknown. — How beautiful and great ! 

"El Mar, — el Mar !" they cried in glee ! — 

Did not Balboa valiantly 

Seek with his soul the main to see, — 

— The still pacific, surging sea, — 

And pressed through wilds of jungle-tree. 

That in the flood the banner free 

Might float in his hand to the mighty sea ? 

But he receives the selfsame wrong 
As does Maghellcui's doughty throng, — 
As do the Cooks : — the Ocean's thong. 
With pale, pale lips they sing their song 
And sink down to the submerged gong, — 
Where still they're listening to the song 
That siren Fancy doth prolong. 

O Thalassa, Cerulean Sea, 

Embrace me. Dear ! I worship Thee, 

My dearest Bride, in ecstacy ! 

Upon Thine breast, obliviously, 

O let me rest, so ceaselessly ! 

O let me sink into the free. 

Vast vault of the billowy sea ! 



61 



Where Orellana heard the song 

Of Amazona, young and strong, 

As like a storm she wells along 

Into the sea, and swells the throng, — 

There may I find the golden tongue 

Of Poesie, and there among 

The waves of sound the Newborn Song ! 

Mine Mississippi's Father's great 
And Vasco's fate, within the gate 
Of that fair land of pride and hate ! — 
Mine Ferdinand's and of his mate 
Francisco, and the Cooks' seafate, — 
While through the main I navigate, 
The storming main of song, so great ! 

endless Mere of Poesy, 

1 cast myself into Thy Sea! 

I am no more ! O Phantasie, 
Do kiss me with Thine ecstasy ! 
Eternal Beauty, come to me ! 

I'm lost to me ! I'm lost in Thee ! 

Long live the dark, blue Ballad-Sea ! 



For the proper appreciation of this historic ballad it may be well to 
recall to mind that Thalassa," the Sea. was personified in a few classic 
instances. Diodes wrote a Drama called Thalassa and dedicated it to a 
wonian so named. I have essayed to anglicise the name in one instance: 
ihalassee. In the second last stanza '•Ferdinand" refers to Maghellan 
b rancisco to Orellana, the di.scoverer of the Amazon river. Allusion is 
also made to the marriage custom of the Doges of Venice to the Adriatic 
bea. Epicharmos lived 540—433 B. C. one of the seven wise men, according 
to some authorities. He was a philosopher of Pythagorean tendency 
likewise a Comedian. His principal work bore the title : "Ga Kai Thalassa " 
?.?yoted to Earth and Sea, but it was popularly known only under the 
title of Thalassa. 



62 



^be fTDost Dutiable Slave 




T'S hard indeed to slave from morn till night 
In workshop filled with stench of sweating men, 
Who know not : "Cleanliness is Man's First Right," — 
In ever dismal, darkling devil's den 
To furtive breathe such poisoned residue 
Of crestwhile wholesome air — the Spirit's sign! — 
That soul and body do their union rue, 
And heave a sigh to God : "Why thus condign ?" ! 



'Tis hard in such companionship to stand. 
And slave and sigh for want of daily bread, 
To see your famished veins on ferverish hand 
With burning eye and downcast head. 
While every stroke brings nearer to the grave 
The loving hearts dependent on your own, — 
To hear, while all your senses seethe and rave, 
A brute's coarse jest that mixes with your groan. 



'Tis hard to feel that you are one of these, 

Who scorn the name of slave and cry aloud 

With bloated lips : "We're Freedom, if you please !" 

To hold your life aloft the surging crowd. 

'Tis hard to understand why just this lot 

Should fall to you, you with such highstrung soul, — 

That, aching to be free, you know you're not ; — 

A freebom slave with an unceasing dole ! 



63 



All this is hard. But harder, harder still : — 
Calmly to work, while blanches hand and brow, 
Impelled by some unseen, unswerving will, 
To whom you ever in obeisance bow. 
With Poet's pencil and with Preacher's pen. 
Led by the Holy Ghost of Truth and Light, — 
And yet find slaving souls and menial men, - - 
Who thrust aside your Instrument of Right. 



The workshop slave, at least, doth find a mart 
For handiwork soaked with his dripping brine. 
And recognition forms a welcome part 
From all the comrades standing in his line ; 
But he, who feels the Muse's breath sincere, — 
Finds no one willing to accept his rime. - - 
He, who would purify man's atmosphere 
Thus slaves and pines — rejected by his time ! 



^ 



64 



Mbo Xives 




UT he, who with the rustling leaves 

Of autumn sighs that they must seer, 
Who feels that Melancholia weaves 
Her strains through all that's good and dear, 
Yet kisses her sad face with fear, — 
But he doth live upon this sphere. 



But he, who feels in music's part 
Exquisite sorrow keen expressed. 
Who kens the pangs of head and heart. 
Love sundered by Death's awful rest. 
False friends' and fiends' unholy zest, — 
He lives and proves Life's sacred test. 

But he, who through the busy mart 
Of toil, its turmoil, press and stress 
Doth wander like through halls of art. 
Cathedral domes, where cardinals bless. 
Who thrills with joy when birds caress, — 
Knows Life and its true inwardness. 

But he, who with his God communes 
On mountain-top, in forest-dale, 
Who hearkens to his soul's still tunes. 
When gleams the dreaming moon-sheen pale, 

Priest, Poet, Prophet in Life's vale, 

He lives and knows Life's wealth and wale. 



66 




H Xetter from port Hrtbur 



Y deaurest friend ! 

I write Thee still from the Land of the Living, 
Though I know not how soon my spirit 
May telegraph to TTiee 
That Victory has come at laist. — 

For better would it be 

That we were buried all, 

Than be interred here all alive. 

With Death's cold perspiration 

Upon our brow and sweat of blood 

Upon our arms, while through the rumbling 

Of the fiercest cannons we \ieai the maddening laugh 

Of the Scytheman, amd see the coals of fire 

In his skeleton devouringly jump through the dark 

At us, to clutch us at the throat. — 

We are no longer human beings. 

Ah, civilization is left behind us ! 

As the prehistoric man 

Dwelt in caves of earth and stone, 

— More like a deadly beast than loving human ! — 

So we, less humem now than ever, 

Are sweating in these sweltering shelters. 

Strictly constructed all according 

To most defensive and destructive modem war-fare 

By heaving men and fighting brothers. 

And yet, methinks, our trials, hardships, 

— And O, the torturing terrors of it all ! — 

Must make us more, far more than human ! — 



66 



Yea, yea, yea ! Like Titans and Olympic Gods 

We are defending dear Port Arthur ! 

More noble than the gladiators. 

Who under the sun of heaven fought 

And bled for freedom cind for favor, — 

We fight for Freedom not, nor Favor ! 

Our Freedom is our death ! 

Our Favor is to die 

In dark and dismal dungeons. 

Wherein the light of day 

An entrance forces only with the bursting 

And killing shells, that tear our comrades 

Away from us and friends and home and life. 

One moment more and we are torn away 

From the beloved side of comrades, 

Who are father, mother, sister, brother 

And all, all else to us, — 

From human things that laugh and sigh and curse 

And swear and light until the last, the very last ! 

And thus our every act and deed and breath and pulse 

In Russian beats its time to ancient cry 

Of dying Gladiators, who hailed their Caesar 

With cheers of welcome, the Salute of Heroes, 

— Their faces reflecting but the pallid light 

Of the dying sun : — 

"Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant !^ — 

So cry we too, and with our voices hoarse 

We pray for the Great White Caesar, 

The Father of us all, for whom we must. 

Must fight, as for ourselves. — 

But O ! — to see the naked bodies, grimy black 



67 



With steam and stench and sweaty soot 

Of smoking guns, — all mixed into one trickling stream - 

Tom, — torn asunder, just awhile, perchance, 

They feed those Moloch-engines, invented of the Fiend, 

That axe to decimate by thousands, — 

Perhap fivethousand, in one deadly hour — 

Those yellow, gnawing, piping rats, 

That cannot fill their insides quick enough 

With iron food, and smack their lips for more ! — 

Outside the bodies lie of friend and foe 

And cry aloud to heaven 

For merciful and loving cover 

Of their decaying mass. But no one 

Heeds this imperative, yea 

All too imperative upwelling odor. — 

And yet we look into the future 

With hope and trust to see the day. 

When guns from the far North will tell 

That Kuropatkin, the Undaunted, 

Is coming to his Schoolmate Stoessel, 

Both of like age and courage neverending, — 

Or that good Roshdjestwensky's Second Fleet 

WOl bring us Freedom, Victory and Life, — 

To us, who have been dead these ten long moons. — 

And thus we cheer the flag, — 

And while we die — we hope for luck. 

And thus we cry triumphantly : 

O Victory, Proud Victory, do come ! 

Until at last dear Victory, DEAR VICTORY — 

Has come ! 



68 

Mitbout a Sounb 




ITHOUT a sound. 

In the mystic light of the moon 
On Etse Mountain figures a ghostly mass. 
Like spirits hom Hades, they flit across the glass. 
In the mystic light of the moon, 
Without a sound. 



Without a sound. 
In the mystic light of the moon. 
And figures, moving fast, yet seeming slow, 
And stealthily they come and go ! — 
Whereto ? — Whereto in the pale light of the moon ? 

No ! Not a sound ! 

No ! Not a sound ! 
Save, save the sound of the booming guns. 
That cut great gaps ! There, there a battalion runs ! 
New lanes are made in the ranks of Nippon's sons 
In the pallid light of the moon, 

Without a sound. 

Without a sound, 
In the glimmering light of the moon. 
The play continues, eind the soldiers move 

By a command, as it magicians might behove, — j 

Working secretly in the mystic moon. 

Without a sound. ; 



Without a sound. 
In the trembling light of the moon» 
As if the ghosts and ghouls of the midnight hour 
All through a gauze of lividness their pow'r 
Would telegraph, and cause the soul to cow'r 
In the quivering light of the moon, 

Without a sound. 



Then — a terrible sound 
Booms through the bluepale light of moon. 
The figures move — and closer, closer they come. 
A roar of the mines — and a thousand some 
Lie there in trenches, in the light of the moon. 

Without a sound. 



A terrible sound ! 
Again and again the Nitroglycerine 
Hurls up the yellow bodies to the moon serene. 
And well it works, that liquid, all unseen, 
In the yellow light of the moon. 

With its hellsound ! 



All hell doth sound. 
When up they march through the dark ravine, 
Until their pigmy forms are seen 
Near the dynamite-mines of Nitroglycerine, 
And up toward the silver moon 

Their bodies fly. 



70 

AD Hell's unchained 
Within the ghostly light of the moon. 
And then they sink agjun to eaurth, 
Hcinds clutching rifles with grim girth, 
While others onwjird surge into Death's berth. 

In the livid light of the moon. 

Without a sound. 
In the ghostly sight of the moon. 

The bayonets like rockets red shoot up — you hear no clash ! - 
Descending like a lightningflash, 

Point down into the quiv'ring muscles, quick and rash. — 
And all this sees the Virgin Moon, 

Without a sound ? 

Without a sound. 
In the Tsarine light of the moon, 
Wildbearded, haggard, starving men, 
Besieged for full ten moons, give welcome, when 
Their yellow friends come greet them at their den. 
And smile a ghastly smile in the dying light of the moon 

Do not their heartstrings moan ? 

Without a sound 
In the yellow light of the moon 
Here for existence battle the Yellow and the White, 
The Pigmies and the Giants, both for Freedom's fight. 
And Titans, Demons, Heroes, GODS they're termed by right, 
- Who die in the ghastly light of the moon, 
Without a moan ! 



71 



®n the Battlefield) of flDukben 




HERE lie the palefaced forms : — 

Bent blossoms, withered grass, 

O'er which a scorching southwind blew, — 

A wild, wild sandstormwind, — 

A darkened cloudstorm and the voice of thunder. 
The smoke of cannons and the noise of monsters 
Out of the darkest depths of firebelching Hell ; — 
Like bleak, dead grasses trodden in the dust 
From heavy wheels and carriages of guns ; 
Stamped to the dust by maddened chcirgers. 
That snort and rear and groan and foam 
And hcisten with wild hoofs across the hill eind vale. 
Hard followed by a cavalcade of giants heavyfooted. 
Who rave and rocir and haste and flee. 

As thunder over the Prairie rolls. 

So fleet they on, and fight and fall. 

And lie they where they're slain : 

All torn and tattered, bleeding forms, 

With half a head and bullet-riddled eyes. 

With mangled body, and with members maimed, — 

— The horsemen of the White and the Yellow Caesar ! — 

In swoons, and thirsting, in the agony of death. 

With hectic cheeks, and with cavernous eyes. 

But none complains and no one cries. 

Be it for life or death. — 

Who suffers here is still and mute, — and silent, silent. — 

A feeble smile from trembling lips 

Breaks forth and plays about the beared mouth 

And thrills out of the dying orb : "Banzai !" — 

But bloodlessly blue lips the silence keep. — 



72 

Lies many an one uncovered by the alien soil there, 

Features unreadable, his face bedecked with sweat and grime. 

Black from the grim, grim service 

Of the awful instruments of roaring death ! 

But no one breathing cries in dire despair. 

From horror of such saddest fate. — 

Here are not heard the far, far mother's groans, 

The brokenhearted sweetheart's sighs, — 

No woman's woeful, weeping wail, 

Heartrenting shriek from inmost cell of sobbing soul. 

No cry, no curse, — no call to God, or man ! — 

Is borne on the wings of the wind from the Isle of fragrant blossoms. 

Is wafted hither from the wide, wide Prairiesoil, 

From the Tartar's white, white Prairieland. 

Naught stirs the breathless silence. 

E'en hunger is dead, and love is dead. 

Aye, love itself, — love, — Love is dead ! 

In this dreaddreadful god's wide battledome 

But one stalks silently through its uncovered halls 

Whose empty eyeball caves glow with a flickering flame, — 

And he victoriously, triumphantly, 

With mocking smile upon his shriveled countenance, 

Bends low and crowns the prostrate forms 

With his deceitful murder-martyr-crown, — 

While all the bloodbespattered leaves of grass 

Obeisant bow — and shy, oppressed. 

With their last sigh breathe forth their dying tribute : 

Ho Thanatos — the black, the sombre Tsar ! — 

Ho — Thanatos the Tsar of Tsars ! 

*) HO - - THANATOS ! ! 



*) It need hardly be remarked that the English word "Death"' bears 
no comparison with the onomatopoetic color of the Greek term, portray- 
ing so splendidly here the sibylant whispering of the dying grasses. 



73 



©ansai 




ANZAI! -- Banzai! — 

As the Stormwind's Bride on the raging sea 

Tears through the fluttering sails, 

And bows the creaking masts 

Of the heaving ships. 

While high, with frothy caps. 
The surging billows leap to alpine crests of snow, — 
So rolls the howling, piercing Battle-cry, 
The Sound of Siege and Storm : 

Banzai ! — Banzai ! ! — 



Banzai ! ! — Banzai ! — Banzai. — 
And as a Mother's pious prayer. 
And as a Maiden's kiss and vow. 
And as a Prophet-Martyr's tearful lamentation, — 
So sounds the dying whisper from a ruckling throat, - 
So full of love. 

Devotion simple, true and holy. 
For Country, Home and Loved Ones far away, — 
So sounds the Cry, midst trickling tears, 
When torn and lacerated lies the body, 
In agony writhing. 
Distress of soul, cind sore with racking pains, — 

While eyes wax gljissy, — stolid, — stark 

And yet — and yet one Word of Victory still 
Escapes the pallid lips : — 
The cry, the Cry, the CRY : — 

BANZAI! 



74 

Zhc Siriuses 




N Kara in Siberia, 

Where some of the exiled Russians dwell, 
The Criminals as well as the "Administratives," 
— Those who through political utterances 
Concerning Freedom lose its chances 

And are banished horn their friends and natives, 

Where they sigh in penal servitude 

And to the alloted "katorga" dciily 

Are driven by tormentors rude, — 

Both men and women, well and fraily, — 

In that awful, fearful, frigid zone. 

We find heroes of a metal 

That not fate nor frost lays prone. 

Whom not scourge nor degredation, 

Nor association * 

With murd'rers, thieves and men of such like mettle 

Can melt or change. 

Men, women with such mental range, 

Their souls, 1 say, of such a metal, 

That ever there it sings 

With no uncertain rings : — 

Erstwhile Princes, Dukes and Privileged Men, 

Students of the universities, wielders of the pen, 

To whom the socieil state of fellows then 

Appealed, — artists, physicians, priests, 

People used to luxuries and feasts, — 

— People who never soiled before their dainty hands. 

But now do well the lowest menial chore, — 

And suff'ring still live there upon a starving fare, 



75 



For years and decades, bound by bands 

Together of sjmipathy and feeling for 

All those unfortunate souls, 

Who like them suffer, starve, and in a desert, destitute, 

Homeless and friendless and penniless grow old. — 

Yea, People, who know their sad life's doles, 

Deprived of future's winking goals. 

Who stand depraved and nude 

In this cruel exile's relentless cold. 

With desolation juid despair 

Upon their faces, still in sorrow fair, - 

And yet do smile and chat — and live ! — 

There is one class of these, to whom the name they give 

Of the Sirius Star, 

That shines at length, when the night has gone quite far. 

For when this radieint orb at the dawn of day 

Arises on horizon's way 

And shines upon the earth, 

TTiese men do seek their barrack's berth 

For but an hour or two, 

Until the morning call's ado 

Does stir them to the day's activity. — 

All through the night. 

And under one dim light, 

The "Siriuses," m their blouses, bend o'er 

To read and read about the outside world, 

And let their spirits bathe and dive 

Into that oceeui vast, and high up soar 

To other climes and times, where Wisdom is unfwied 

And free, and knowledge is alive. — 

Why — do you ask — do they not use 



76 



The evening hours, their books still to peruse, — 

When all the others sit euround the table, 

And prior to the time, when comfortable, 

(More or less !) in pairs 

They have to press their narrow beds of board ? — 

Because of this : Where there's a horde 

Of persons, thus promiscuously mixed. 

All sitting on benches around one board. 

With only one dreaming, dangling lamp in center fixed. 

Not all can see to read, — 

Nor do all care to read. 

Some smoke and joke, debate and laugh, 

And while away the endless winter hours, 

As best they can, with all the wit they have. — 

Then seek their rest the literary plowers. 

The "Siriuses," to take all sleep 

That they can battle for in all this noise. — 

But when the gross of men goes in to seek 

Nightrest upon their barrackboards, the boys, 

Who wished to rest awhile their working brain. 

Come out to sit right down again. 

And fill their thirsting souls with lore, 

Until that brightest star comes up once more. 

I call these untiring "Siriuses" brighter stars 

Than that cold heavenly star. — Hurrah, here goes : 

To Kara's Heroes ! 

To them my most respectful compliment ! — 

And I arise, and hat in hand, and bent 

In courtesy's best bow, I caJI 

These Ejdles : Princes all ! 



77 



TReliGious Service on a IRussian 
Battlefielb 




ULL many a thousand tents upon the plain 
In file and rank are pointing to the sky. 
The swords and lances greets a golden rain. 



A bearded priest is mumbling mass on high 
In rich embroidered heavy cloth and gold. 
An humble altar in the field stands by. 



Now forth from the chasubla's silken fold 
He stretches out his hand and high aloft. 
Then swing the smoking censers high emd bold. 



And here the farmers young, their eyeglance soft, 
The cosaks and the yeomein, praying stand. 
With downcast heads, crisscrossing themselves oft. 



They murmur prayers, and look down upon the hand 
Which holds the missal, and their souls bow deep 
In awe before the Tsar of Heaven's Land. 



78 



The flowers of the steppes all nod and weep. 
Smokeclouds wend wearily up from camp and tent. — 
Do these portend approaching Death's still keep? 



And have these youths, who from the farms were sent. 
Have they no fear and think not of the chance, 
And of the battlefield's darkred pigment ? — 



They pray to Him, who guides the gun and lance, 
And stand bareheaded on Mamchuria's field. — 
"Last service this!" thinks one with furtive glance. — 



"If ever I return it's on my shield !" 

Thus prayer and the thought of coming death. 
United strong, do manly heroes yield. — 



Behold the Teaching of the Battlefield! 



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J' 



79 



tTbe 1bero of the Iboe 




PAINTER painted and a Poet saw. 

But the Interpretation of the last ! 

Was foreign to the Artist's bold intent. I 

The pencil painted with poetic strength 1 

A peasant in a scrubby stubble-field, i 

Aleaning for a moment on his hoe, \ 

Back bent, his hands upon his instrument. j 



With panting breath, puffed through his opened mouth, 
Bespeaking pentup energy and might 
In those steel tissues and the supple limbs, 
In wooden shoes the man stands, head erect. 
His gaze still secirching, even though his eyes, 
Accustomed to look down, seem staurtled now. 



The sun is setting. Soon the toil is done, 
When home the plowman plods with heavy hoe. 
As he a moment thus observing leems 
Upon his tool, he stemds an emblem there 
Of nature's coarse, yet needful handiwork, — 
And we advance to shake his homy hand. 



80 



Not so the Poet's pen portrayed this man. 

"Dumb Terror," — "monstrous" and "distorted thing" 

He names him, — formed by God of selfsame clay. 

A "slanted brow" he sees, a "brutal jaw." 

Whence such keen ken and penetrating glance. 
That reads the soul but in the countenance ? 



Ah no ! I call this brother mine right blest, — 

Far greater blest than those who never use 

That hard old hoe ; — aye, that are cursed of God 

To wander, minus aim and love and hope, 

— Not even "brothers to the plowing ox !" — 

World through, still mocking their soul's secret dearth. 



Who tills the eaath for children hence to come. 
Who makes a Paradise and dreams of it, 
E'en though his mind by books untutored be, 
A culture bears and blessing brings eternal! — 
I name the hoeman — hero ! May his soul 
Forever move the soil to bring forth life ! 



The painter here referred to is Milet, the French artist, of the School 
of Barbizon, whose well-known peasant subjects have never had any other 
object in view than the glorification of the peasant's life and to show the 
poetry in the work of a farmer. Edwin Markham is the American poet 
who put a new construction on Milet's: "The Man with the Hoe." 



81 



Mitbout a Iboe 

To Edwin Markham 




OUCHED by the leaden look of one who seemed 
His fellow-man, though deaf and dumb and dead, 
A poet mused and szmg a song, that teemed 
With wailing sobs in that poor creature's stead. 
For placing in the huge and horny hand 
Of such stunned brute the instrument of toil, 
That cows and bows him down into the sauid 
And makes him sweat auid swear into the soil. 
The Poet loud invoked his better brother 
To take this man and form of him cinother. 



But listen, Bard ! Does not this tiller's hoe 

Contain his boon, his blessing, board and bread ? 

Take him his hoe juid fathom then his woe, 

The fiendish glatfe of eyes then in his head. 

Imagine those coarse haoids in desuetude. 

Thou callst him "brute" as thus he tills the earth. — 

TeU me, which thinkest thou to be more rude : 

His hcind encircling feist hoe-handle's girth — 

Or thine own throat ? — We know not what his pleasure, 

If we should rob him of this primal treasure I 



82 

Wise zmcient lore from eastern land doth teach : 

The first of castes, from which all others rose, 

The "vaicyas" were, whose hands did ever reach 

To Mother Earth's warm bosom, beating close. 

And Kalidasa's voice through centuries rings : 

"The heavy-laden cloud that drooping bends, 

— Like beauing tree — most bounteous blessing brings !" 

Thus ev'ry singer true in song conunends 

Fcur nature and the sons of toil and tilling. 

Whose lap the fruitful soil is ever filling. 



Let us return to fost'ring Mother Earth ! 

Go, give to those with empty hands their hoes. 

That love of labor follow tedium's dearth. 

And work and sunshine change to joy our woes ! 

Who toileth not with downcast head and brow, 

Robs but another of the soul of life. 

He grauits no boon, who knows not how to plow. 

And marks not when the fruits of fate are rife. — 

Each man without a hoe, some just vocation, 

For all Eternity Impedes His Nation ! 




83 

H Zbicf 

OMELESS, penniless and friendless, 

Wandering through the streets and starving, 
Gustave the Baker seeks and begs emplosmnent. 



Months ago he lost employment. 

Sick he lay for months and friendless. 

Nowhere work he finds — and now he's starving. 



Nowhere work ! No bread ! — But starving 
Stares him in the face. So, friendless, 
Hopeless thus, he wandering seeks employment. 



But a mother has the friendless 
Man of thirty, now here starving. 
Finding neither food nor yet employment. 



Yea, a mother, likewise friendless, 

In the Fatherland, and starving. 

While her distant boy has no employment. 



84 



In a village there the starving 

Poor old mother, sick and friendless, 

Longs and prays, prays for her boy's employment. 



And she writes : "1 hope employment 
Thou hast found, no longer friendless. 
And that now at last will end our starving !" 



How with tearstained face the staurving 
Baker wjJks the streets, so friendless, 
Of the City Great, wathout employment. 



See the mansions, whose employment 

Pleasure, comfort speaks, while starving 

He stands on the outside, cold and friendless ! 



On the streets oft slept the friendless. 
On the cold stones slept the starving. 
Starving baker, finding no employment 

Honest has he been, though friendless. — 

Mother now and son are starving. 

Says one : "Seek Employment, — Seek Employment I" - - 



85 



And he makes himself employment. — 

See yon "lady ?" — Never friendless, 

She, so "rich," — did never yet know starving ! 



Then he clutches her. — The starving 
Clutches at a throat. — The friendless 
Robs a chateleine of its employment 



But his feet refuse employment. 

And he falls, the wan and friendless, — 

Till the police seize the thief there, starving. 



Frantic, crying, then, the starving 
Man the letter from his friendless 
Mother shows, who for him prays employment. — 



"Mother! Mother! ! — Starving! Friendless! - 

Gave I but the knife employment ! 

In the Prison now thy "THIFFl" is starving!" — 



86 

Xittle Ennic IFle 




OYOUSLY from school she came, 

Glad and and without sorrow. 

Thinking of a happy game 

And the gay tomorrow, — 

Little Annie He. 



"Hey there ! Out the way !" he cried, 
Cried the driver frightened. 
Danger he too late espied, 
Though the reins he tightened. — 

Poor, poor Annie lie ! 

"Weep not, father !" cried the girl. — 
"Hear me sweetly singing !" — 
Then she sang. He kissed her curl — 
While the voice came winging 

Of sweet Annie He. 

And "Beyond the Vale of Tears" - - 
"Beyond the Smiling, — Weeping" 
Sang she, without tears or fears. 
In the Sisters' keepmg, — 

Little Annie He. 



87 

But the father watched and stayed. 
All night she was singing. 
Hand on ferverish brow he laid, 
To her bedside clinging: — 

"Little Annie He!" 



"Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping" 
Still she sang and seoig, 
Till the sunlight soft came peeping, 
And the deathbell rang: 

"Little — Annie — He !" 



Once she spake and then said : — "Papa, 
Let him suffer not! — 
Driver Christiansen, Papa, — 
Let him suffer not 

For poor Annie He !" — 



Weepingly to her he promised. — 
Then she smiled and sang. 
Kissing her he bent and promised. — 
Once more smiled and sang 

Little Annie lie. 



88 

AD her schoolmates 'round her bedside 
Said Good-bye, — Good-bye ! — 
To the schoolmates 'round her bedside 
Annie bid Good-bye, — 

Dying Annie He. 



"Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping" 
Tearfully they sang. — 
"Beyond the Smiling and the Weeping," 
Smiling as she sang, — 

So passed Annie He. 

LOFC. 



89 



1ber3elel&e 




ERE where the Ladyslipper blows, 

O Herzeleide, spread thy gown, — 
Lay all the love that in thee glows 
Into the green and mossy down. — 



Where Arbutus doth Anemone embrace, 
While the Erica turns red. 
Where Lonicera flaunts her grace 
And the Bluebird finds a bed. — 

Far from the world with her deceit 
And from our own heart's ceaseless pain, 
From crimson fate and her fumaceheat, — 
Come let us love, and love again. 

Let us look deep down upon the vale, 
With all its pigmies, gray and cold, 
High from the mountain's wold and dale 
Into the mists below, right bold, 

And arm in arm with flamiing kiss 
Fordrecim in love sad Sonow's call, — 
And arm in arm in loving bliss — 
Paurt from our love and life and all. 



It will be remembered that in Wolfram von Eschenbach's celebrated 
epic the mother of Parzival is named Herzeleide (Her-ze-lei-de), Heart- 
.^orroxo, and that she died out of grief for her husband and son. 



90 



fliagata 




lAGARA, 

Not saw I Thee, when all the golden gods 
Of smiling purple skies kissed Thee 
Upon Thine undulating alabaster bosom, 
From which forthwith ten million frothborn 
children rushed to joy. — 

Niagara, I saw Thee 

When o'er TTiine frosty brow the floating forms 

Of heavens' cloistral nuns did bend. 

Bewailing with the burdened, moaning mists 

The message of Thine everlasting sorrow. — 

And then, Niagara, 

Through all the thousand veils and mists, 

Through all the mountains formed of sad, gray tears, 

I saw thee falter, falter 

At such grief, such grief unspeakable. 

And totter, tremble, reel and fall — 

Awhile the heavens thundered, and the cloudnuns wept 

Into the wide, white sea of tumbling, rushing waters. — 

And then I rose. — Ah, I arose ! 

I rose — and tottered to the trembling brink, — 

And with one last, long look to heaven — 

That Thou may'st live, — 

I paid the sacrifice, Niagara! 



91 



Xibertie 




Y Country, 'tis of thee, 

Sweet Land of Liberty, 
Of thee I sing. 



So played the grayhaired man 
Upon his violin, 

In shabby dress and features wan, 
There in the streets of Manhattan. 
Upon his violin. 



Land, where my fathers died. 
Land of the pilgrim's pride. 
From ev'ry mountain-side 
Let Freedom ring. 



So played he penniless, 
Emaciated, freedomless, 
Tattered, torn and eyesightless. 



My native Country, thee, 
Land of the Noble, Free, 
Thy name I love. 



92 



His hungry face did glow. 
The bent form seemed erect to grow. 
Fluttering locks swept to and fro, 
Over his violin. 



Let music swell the breeze, 
And ring from all the trees 
Sweet Freedom's song. 



So played this fateful slave. 
Who knew no freedom, simple knave ; 
Who as a pauper goes to the grave — 
With his old violin. 



Let mortal tongues awake. 

Let all that breathe partake. 
Let rocks their silence break. 
The sound prolong. 



He nothmg had but poverty and strife. 
He breathed but disappointment rife, 
Yet he laughed and scorned and scoffed at life 
Upon his violin. 



93 



Our Fathers* God, to Thee, 
Author of Liberty, 

To Thee, we sing. 



The children ring around him. 
They dance and sing around him. 
In ecstaisy they cling around him — 
And his old violin. 



Long may our land be bright 
With Freedom's holy light. 
Protect us by Thy Might, 
Great God, our King I 



So played the blind old man. 

But never again will the children scan 
That poor old face, so wan. 
And the mute old violin. 



These verses were suggested by the relation of above story in the 
pages of The Ariel" some years ago. 



94 



Zo Ssemi^on Jacovlevitsb 
IRabson 




HOU sangst thine song in far more ponderous tongue. 
And sankst in youthful years into the grave, 
While still some life did me from Death's door save. — 
But yet it seems, as if a gladsome song 
A melancholy fate did us decline. 
And that mine sorrow's tune attunes to thine. 



I, too, like thee, have felt our virtue's sham, 
And hate all sycophants and hypocrites. 
And scorn all shaJlow scientific wits. 
And I vociferate, where'er I am. 
Against the mockery in church and state 
And art, and Mammon's Might Insatiate I 



I know too well the idol of our times. 
Abhorred by all, and whom yet each one craves, 
Who makes us all his menial, abject slaves, — 
To whom we owe all misery euid crimes, — 
The ugly Moloch on the glittering throne, 
To whom the "sons of God" have fallen prone. . . 



♦) This most popular modern lyric poet of Russia was born on the 26th 
day of December 1862, in St. Petersburg. He died January 31, 1886. twenty- 
three years old. His earliest printed poems were written at the age of 
sixteen, in 1878. 



95 



That fickle female Fortune frowned on thee. 
Henceforth thine youth redblossomed with the tear. 
To both of us she brought but pam and fear. 
And crowned us with her tortures ceaselessly. 
Thou, too, a hated "Mad Herostratos," 
Who flung his brands, euid burned the temple's dross. 



Ah, like a convict walktest thou the straits 
Of human life, — who drags a heavy chain : 
The burdens of the slaves, alive amd slain. 
The crimes of ages and the sins of states, — 
Who knows no boon and knows no remedy. 
For he himself is weak and never free ! 



A poet, thou, who sang in minor strain, 

And longed to strike the sympathetic chord, 

Yet lacked the power of a Savior's word ! 

A steady martyr, crucified by pain. 

Thine song, — like music of the rain in spring, — 

Aroused but greeneyed envy's venomed sting. 



While still a lad thou dreamst a precious dream : — 
The Queen of Song with crown of garnet-stone 
Becked from the singers' strong thee to her throne. 
And knighted thee with sunlight's golden beam. — 
It was the dream but of a pale, sick boy — 
And in the fever's ban a hectic joy. — 



96 



But when the chains of life at last fell off, 
And from thine hand slipped soft away the lute, 
No longer was thine power chained and mute. 
High soaured it up and conquered every scoff. 
All queens of song then sang thine music's mete, 
And all the world sank to its poet's feet. 



Then let me kiss and greet thee, uncrowned king. 
Seal my salute upon thine forehead pale ! 
I see thine stcir beyond earth's dale zmd vale, 
And feel in mine own lute its message ring. 
O touch my lips that they may sing and tell ! 
O let me drink deep from thme sorrow's well ! 



JErrata 

Page 18, insert " at end of 2nd and 3rd strophe. 

Page 19, footnote, read: Maria "La Assunta." and in last line : vulgarly. 

Page 24, ist strophe, 3rd line, read: "turbid rivers." 

Page 40, 1st strophe, 2nd line, read : arm's. 

Page 62, 1st strophe, 6th line, read: erstwhile (instead of crestwhile). 

Page 72, lOth line from top, read: Heartrending. 

Page 80, footnote, read: Millet (instead of Milet). 



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APR 27 1907 



LIBRARY OF CONGRES| 

015 929 785 8 



